Dust And Shadows
by Shu of the Wind
Summary: Vincent has a request, and Frances has never been one to refuse her brother when he has a job for her. This one turns out to be just the slightest bit unexpected. Crossover with Cassandra Clare's The Infernal Devices. Set a year before Clockwork Angel. Oneshot.


**Dust and Shadows**  
><strong>by Shu of the Wind<strong>

_It was the dark delusion of a dream,  
>That living Person conscious and supreme<br>Whom we must curse for cursing us with life;  
>Whom we must curse because the life he gave<br>Could not be buried in the quiet grave,  
>Could not be killed by poison or the knife.<em>

She can still remember it, quite clearly, that day a decade ago, when she was young and inexperienced and stupid. 1877. Elizabeth had just turned three, she remembered, and Edward six or seven. She'd been married eight years, but she'd only just cracked twenty-six. So young. She looks back on it now and closes her eyes at her own naiveté. Alexis had been away on a trip, and when her brother had come to her with an odd request, she had never considered not granting it. They were blood, after all. One was loyal to one's blood.

The fog was rolling in off of the Thames and the smell of iron and sour water was thick in the air when Frances set her hand in Vincent's and stepped down from the carriage, staring up at the spire of the church. She had been to this part of London before, of course, but she'd never made it in to All-Hallows-the-Less, simply because she hated churches. Frances glanced at her brother, but Vincent said very little. He'd inherited their father's tendency towards the laconic, and outside of Society, he usually watched, rather than jabbered. It was part of what made him such an excellent Watchdog. Frances tightened her fingers in her skirt, and said, "What are we doing here, Vincent? You said you had a job for me, not a church."

"The church _is _the job," he said, and he inclined his head to the taxi driver, who cracked the whip over his horse and sent the carriage rattling away. He waited until it had turned the corner before glancing at Frances again, and there was something sharp and quiet in his eyes, a soft warning. "It took me a very long time to obtain permission for this, Frances. They wouldn't have agreed to it, if the situation hadn't been quite so…difficult. But their need outweighed their reason."

"Ah." _Don't speak of this. Ever._ The message was plain enough. "I see. Then why am I here?"

"Backup." He said, his wry smile twisting the corner of his mouth, and Frances pinched him on the upper arm. Vincent scowled at her.

"You said you'd stop doing that."

"I said I'd stop doing it when you stopped being an idiot. As far as I can see, that won't happen for a while yet."

He ignored that. His face grew serious again, serious enough to make her not quite nervous, but anxious nevertheless. "It took a great deal of arguing to get you in here, Frances. You can _never _tell anyone about this. Not Rachel, not Anne, not Alexis, not anyone. This is to be a silent secret between the two of us. Never to be spoken of. All right?"

She studied him for a long moment, and because she was young and inexperienced and stupid, she nodded, and let her brother pull her arm through his.

There was something funny about the church, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it at first. It wasn't that she was frightened of the place, because if she was going to be frightened of anything, it wouldn't be a moldy old church. More of a sense of _wrongness_ – that they weren't supposed to be there, weren't supposed to be walking this way. It looked less deserted than forbidding, somewhere they were clearly _Not Supposed To Be_, but she tightened her hand on Vincent's arm as he took her up the steps and banged the knocker against the heavy wooden door. Something was swirling in the back of her mind, and in spite of herself, she felt her feet take a step back. "We shouldn't be here."

"It's just the wards, Frances. We'll be through them in a minute."

She only just had time to give her brother a sharp look _– wards?_ – before the door opened, and the young woman in the uniform of a parlor maid curtsied to them, keeping her eyes on the floor. "My lord Phantomhive. And…"

"My sister," said Vincent, and he waited until the maid stepped aside before crossing the threshold. Frances felt a bit sick, her stomach rolling, like she was on a sinking ship. "The feeling will pass soon, won't it?"

"Once she's inside for a while, probably." There was some undercurrent in the maid's voice, some tendril of interest, and after a moment she added, "But it's best if we give her one of the charms. Mr. Fell left us some the last time he was here. I'll fetch one for the lady?"

She vanished down one of the dark hallways before either one of them could reply. From somewhere in the house, a violin began to sing. It was slow and soft and somehow painful to hear, deep throbbing notes that rolled like stones down the staircase, every sharp a melancholy cry. Her stomach was starting to hurt, now, clenching up like it had during labor, and she wondered if she'd ever have to experience that pain again. She had no intention of having another child. It would mean more mess, more pain, and more time stuck in the house, and even though she adored Edward and Elizabeth with all of her heart and more, she wasn't sure she could be trapped in the role of _mother_ for much longer.

At the top of the stairs, Frances spotted movement. A dark-haired boy, pausing on the landing, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the rails. He had gleaming blue eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to cut through his skin. "It's not often we have visitors."

"Good afternoon, Will," said Vincent, and the boy – Will – snapped a glance at Vincent before his mouth curved. It wasn't a smile. She couldn't call it a smile. It was a grimace of recognition.

"Phantomhive. I thought Charlotte had better taste than this."

"We have full permission to be here if you recall." Vincent twisted a ring on his finger, absentmindedly. It was gold, set with a carved piece of obsidian, and she wondered where he'd bought it. It didn't look like anything she'd seen in the family vaults. She wasn't sure – maybe it was the cramps setting her belly on fire – but there was something off about it. A strange, almost sparkling quality. "And it was the Institute that summoned me, rather than the other way 'round."

"Well, of course that lends the whole thing the whiff of legitimacy, doesn't it?" The boy quipped, and there was something in his tone that set her hackles up. "Don't let me get in the way of your grand, important affairs, Phantomhive. I really have no interest in your side of politics."

"Pity. I have the feeling you would be good at it."

"As you say. But again, I'm not inclined towards double-dealing and treachery." He gave another twisted, bitter smile, and put his hands behind his head, wandering off down the hallway, still speaking. "After all, I see the evil of this time."

She waited until she heard a door close before glancing at Vincent. "Was I sent to deal with him? Because I would very much like to punch him, if you don't mind."

"Will's a problem someone else will have to deal with. Most likely himself." Vincent lifted a shoulder in a shrug as the maid returned, holding a silver charm in one hand; she offered it to Frances, who took it. The cramps didn't ease immediately, but they lessened, and the mixture of intrigue, confusion, and wariness in the back of her mind churned faster. When she looked at Vincent, he was smiling at her, and it had an odd mockery to it, like the smile of the boy at the top of the stairs.

"It's best if you not ask, Frances."

Frances rolled the small charm between her fingers before setting the chain around her neck, taking a breath. Her sword was a comforting weight at her side. "Fine. Shall we go?"

The notes of the violin follow them down the hall, like raindrops, like tears.

The man they were meeting with turned out to be a woman – younger than Frances, petite, with small delicate hands and eyes that darted everywhere, taking in everything. They lingered on the sword at Frances' waist for a moment before she held out her hand and introduced herself as Charlotte Branwell. Her grip was firm and the handshake was stronger than Frances had expected. "I wouldn't have called you here, Phantomhive, if it hadn't been…awkward."

"Rest assured that my lips are sealed."

Charlotte's gaze slid to Frances and then away. Frances straightened. "I grew up a Phantomhive. I know how to keep my mouth shut."

"I wasn't going to say anything," said Charlotte, but she relaxed, just slightly, as she turned back to Vincent. "We're more than capable of handling our side of things. But there's a mund – there's a man assisting the…people we're trying to track down, supplying them with what they need. We need him stopped. My contact recommended you."

"For queen and country," quipped Vincent, and Charlotte gave him a grim smile, tucking a stray strand of dark hair back up into her high messy bun.

"As you say." She glanced at Frances. "I'm quite certain the two of you are completely capable of handling this on your own, but I would appreciate—"

"If you want to send one of your men with us, that's perfectly acceptable." Vincent had always had a talent for soothing people. She wondered if that was part of what made him such a good Watchdog. Charlotte kept her eyes on Frances for a moment longer, and then she nodded.

"Jem will go with you, it's one of his better days. Will's confined to the house. There was an… incident. It's best we keep him close for now." She sounded just slightly defensive, as though she was waiting for a verbal slap. Frances turned to Vincent, raising one eyebrow in a silent question that he ignored.

"I trust you to run your house in the way you see fit, Mrs. Branwell, and from what I've seen of your work you do an excellent job at it. Besides, I have my own matters to attend to."

"Of course." Charlotte smoothed down the front of her skirt. "Jem will give you the details on your way to the house. Sophie, go and fetch him, will you?" The maid curtsied – Frances jumped a little when the candlelight flickered over a long scar, stretching her face, twisting it sharply – and left the room. Charlotte continued: "It's been a while since he's left the house. It's difficult for him sometimes. I assure you, he's not out of practice."

"I believe it. Besides, he'll mainly be dealing with Frances. I'd honestly not get involved with a fight, if it comes down to that. I'm not particularly good at it."

Frances couldn't help it. She spoke. "I won't waste my time taking care of a green boy. I hope you both understand that. I'm not a babysitter."

"Jem can take care of himself," replied Charlotte, and there was a curious tension to her voice now, as though she wanted to lunge forward and rake out Frances' eyes for implying that the boy was anything other than Aeneas or Achilles. "Trust me on that one."

Frances snorted, and said nothing more, fingering the handle of her sword. Sophie returned a few awkward, mostly silent minutes later with a boy whose pale hair – she thought it could have been silver, but that was impossible, wasn't it? – gleamed in the candlelight. He glanced at Charlotte, and then smiled politely at Frances and Vincent in turn. "Well. Shall we get started, then?"

* * *

><p>The carriage that was waiting for them outside the church was well-curtained, and the trip to their destination took the better part of two hours. Frances had a sneaking suspicion that they were going 'round and 'round in circles, to throw off their sense of direction, and to discourage any people who might be following them, though she still wasn't entirely certain why anyone would want to follow them in such a twisting twining journey across the greater part of London.<p>

The boy – he was so young, she thought, slender and fragile like a just-hatched bird – rubbed his thumb lightly over the top of his walking stick. It looked well-used. She wondered why such a young man would depend on something so heavily that it turned into an old man's cane. He'd gone over a short summary of the situation – that the twins would likely be in the upstairs bedrooms, and that he needed Frances to go up and collect them while Jem checked through the house to make sure there was no one else lurking around. Vincent had an errand of his own, which meant he wouldn't be going inside with them. When he'd stretched his arms out, loosening the muscles, she'd caught a dark curl of ink around his wrist, and sent Vincent a very sharp look. She had no idea what her brother had pulled her into this time, but she _definitely_ didn't like it all that much.

_Children aren't supposed to be warriors_.

When the carriage finally rattled to a halt, and the curtains pulled back, the sun had set, casting the world into darkness. She could smell something acidic on the air, and in the alleys she saw children scrabbling over something small. They were dressed in rags. She had a sinking feeling they were deep in the East End, now. After all, it clearly wasn't Mayfair. Jem slipped down out of the carriage, his hair glowing in the strips of moonlight piercing the clouds. Other than his head and hands, he was almost completely invisible, his black uniform blending with the night. Frances stepped down next, ignoring his proffered hand, and kept her hand on her blade. Vincent smiled his half-moon smile. "Good luck, you two."

"You're a wretched little brother." She said, and slammed the carriage door. "I hope you know that."

"How could I not, when you tell me that every day?"

Jem glanced up at the driver, and inclined his head. "Thank you, Thomas."

"I'll be right around the corner," said Thomas, and he clucked his tongue, sending the horse into a trot. As the carriage moved past, Frances spotted the children staring at them, and turned her back on them. Her heart was twisting in her chest, and it was aggravating.

"Now what?"

"This way," said Jem, and ducking his head, he vanished down the nearest alley. Frances padded after him.

They walked in silence. She was taller than Jem, she realized, as the boy clambered up over an iron gate and dropped to the ground, turning to wait for her. Not by much, but she was. Probably a decade older. She suddenly felt ancient. In seven or eight years, would this be what Edward was doing? What about Elizabeth? She was only an infant, just toddling, and there was a sharp pain in her breast when she thought of one of her babies having the haunted eyes of this boy. Frances dropped to the ground, and caught him smiling at her. "What?"

"Nothing," she said uneasily. Then she changed her mind. "What exactly is it you people do?"

"You're direct. That's refreshing." Jem twirled his walking stick and then set the tip on the ground again, holding it close. It was a curious weapon to bring along on an errand such as this one. "I'm afraid I can't tell you. We're doing good, though. We're trying to help the world."

"In a fanatical sort of way? Because that would be highly inconvenient and not at all to my taste. Fanatics tend to be obnoxiously stubborn. No offense."

He laughed. "You sound like Will." She bristled at that one, but he ignored it, crouching in front of a smoke-streaked door and pulling a slender set of picks, setting to the lock. "No, we're not fanatics. I don't think your brother would be working with us otherwise."

"He's worked with worse." And so had her father, and her uncle before him. "You're not going to tell me anything, are you?"

"With any luck, I won't have to." There was a click, and when he turned the knob, the door creaked open. Jem glanced over his shoulder at her, pointed up – _as if I don't know what I'm supposed to do_ – and vanished into the darkness of the house.

She didn't like leaving Jem to wander the house alone. She didn't trust him. Vincent had worked with shady individuals before, and age didn't matter in a city like London. But she also trusted Vincent, even though she probably shouldn't have, so she grit her teeth and marched up the stairs. They were blessedly quiet, and any creaks they made could be attributed to the weather. It was dastardly cold outside, and wood houses like this one made noises in the cold. Boards squawked. Roofs whined. So a squeaking staircase was hidden in the cacophony. The house itself, though, was quiet. No movement, no whispers, nothing, and she pulled her sword from its sheath just to hold onto something, to settle herself.

The second floor turned up empty. So did the third, and there was nothing in the attic but dust and an old dead crow. Frances turned and went back down the stairs, her ears pricked, but there was nothing. She was beginning to wonder if this was all a trick when someone screamed.

But it wasn't a scream. It couldn't have been described as a scream. It was a wall of sound that lashed her like a thin-bladed knife, driving into her ears, making her cry out from the pain of it, so high and whining that it shattered one of the gas lamps on the wall. She dodged the falling glass, and she was clattering down the stairs before she realized what was happening.

It wasn't on the first floor. It was too muffled for that. She found an open door with more stairs, and rattled down them, her feet moving so fast she wondered, vaguely, in the back of her mind, what would happen if she lost her balance. She would fall and crack her neck, probably. Something screaming and wild flew out of the dark at her, and when she lashed out, another crow fell in two pieces at her feet, bigger than any crow she'd ever seen. Blood streaked down her sword as she leapt over the carcass and down the final three steps to land on the floor, knees bent, her blade at the ready.

The walls were fluttering and quivering with crows. Blood was splashed over the floor in a wide circle; in the center there was a small stand, like a sundial, but with a glass jar on top. Her gorge rose. That was a _human head_, there was a girl's head in that jar, and when a bird flew out at her, huge, screaming, talons extended, she barely whipped around in time to slice it apart. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of silver hair, and Jem had a sword of his own, one with a silver dragon's head on the end. His cane. _Of course, how obvious_. His pale eyes widened at the sight of her, and the man he was fighting lunged forward and gashed him over the ribs with a – dagger, maybe. She couldn't see any metal in his grip. Jem let out a cry, and lashed out viciously with his leg. "Get the jar!"

She obeyed. There was no time for questions. She had only taken one step when the crows converged, and she felt beaks tearing at her hair, talons ripping at her clothes. It _hurt_; she could feel her skin being flayed, and she was writhing trying to throw some of them off her. They had red eyes, she realized, when she peeked out from behind her arm, and for some reason she felt _scales_ lashing her as well. She stumbled forward, tripped, and they flew away from her as though she'd doused herself in burning oil. Her hands were smeared in blood. She was inside the circle, and when she looked up, the crows – snake-crows, she realized, and her heart was pounding in her throat and she couldn't breathe at the sight of them – were lurking up against the wall again, glaring at her hatefully. They scrambled up the wall just before Jem was thrown into it by the man they were hunting, and he had red eyes too, she saw; red eyes and dark hair and long claws that shrieked against the stone. Jem dropped and rolled, and when he straightened, his sword was gone, skittering across the floor. She grabbed it, and shouted. "_You idiot_!"

"The _jar_!" Jem shouted back, and he pulled something small from his pocket. "_Eremiel_," he whispered, and with a flash of light, a blade came from nowhere, glowing silver and streaking peace through the basement.

Frances shook her head quickly. _Get the jar, woman, get the jar_. When she stood, the man snapped to attention, and Jem leapt in his way as she took her three steps forward and seized the jar in her hands, lifting it off of the pedestal just as Jem lunged forward and drove his shining blade into one of the man's crimson eyes.

The scream came again, and this time, it wasn't muffled. It was endless, and she dropped the jar as her hands clapped themselves over her ears, a desperate attempt to save her hearing. Glass shattered, and through squinted eyes she watched the head land with a _splot_ting sound, staring up at her with blank dead eyes. It was a girl's head. A young one. She nearly vomited as Jem wrenched his blade back, face twisted with the pain of it, and slashed the sword across the man's throat. The sound didn't end, stretching on and on and on until he seized his cane-sword and with a final strike, decapitated him.

The ravens were screaming and cawing and fluttering around him, but they recoiled from the sword like a vampire from a cross, and when he crossed the room, it cast light and shadow over his face. "Get the head. We have to get out of here before one of his partners shows up."

She didn't ask questions. Frances seized the head by the hair, dumped it in a bag that Jem had scrounged out of the corner of the basement, and followed him up the stairs and out into the world.

It had only taken ten minutes.

* * *

><p>She'd never liked parties. Frances sat moodily in the corner, watching as Vincent and Alexis buzzed around the room, talking here and there, greeting some people, disdaining others. They were always, always, always moving, circling like sharks, and even if she'd wanted to come to this event in the first place, their behavior would have soured her mood right enough. She flicked open her fan and fluttered it absently, cursing the heat and the thick cloth of her dress and the chatter of the married women near her. She hadn't even been able to bring one of her swords, even though she was fairly desperate to run through one of her companions. The woman had a voice like an injured cat. Or a screaming crow.<p>

She shoved that thought from her mind just as the boy dropped into the seat beside her, giving her a look through his long bangs. "You're wearing the amulet."

It was Jem. His hair was shaggy now, and he was thinner than he'd been three months ago. His cane was just the same. Frances lifted a hand to where the little charm lay in the hollow of her throat, and kept very still, watching him. He looked Chinese, she thought, something she hadn't realized the first time she'd met him. "I was wondering if I'd find you at this one."

"Does Vincent know you're here?"

"No. He took his amulet off a long time ago. He doesn't need the Institute anymore, it seems." There was no anger or judgment in his words, simply an observation of fact. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

"Don't remind me. If I could leave without causing a fuss, I would have done so long ago." He laughed. It reminded her of Edward, a simple, unabashed spurt of amusement, and it made her stomach clench to see him do it. He wasn't lost to the dark after all. Frances hesitated, trying to find the words, but she couldn't think of anything. She'd always been so damned bad at saying what she thought. So she settled for something safe. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed fresh air," he said, and for the first time she realized how deep the circles were under his eyes, and how sharp his cheekbones were jutting out. He looked ill. "It's nothing," he added, "just a minor bug. I'll feel better soon enough."

He was lying. She could see that. But his eyes were begging her not to ask. "All right."

They sat in silence for a long moment. He had the talent – one he shared with Alexis – of being able to say nothing, and make it comfortable. The silence was his blanket. She didn't say anything either. She didn't like to talk very much.

"I'm not going to see any of you again, am I?" asked Frances, and Jem stood and bowed to her, sweeping his hat off his head.

"You never know. We tend to leak from the cracks when you least expect it." His eyes were silver. She let herself believe it as he met her gaze, and smiled, a real honest moon-like smile. "Keep an eye out, my lady Middleford. Know that if you need it, the Institute will welcome you through its doors."

"Know that if _you _need it, you only need to send me a note," she said, and inclined her head to him. Jem chuckled once.

"All right." He began to turn away. Then he reached out, touching his fingers to the amulet on her throat. "Why do you still wear it?"

"I thought it was a dream," she replied. "What's wrong with clinging to a dream?"

Jem smiled again, wry and sad, letting his hand fall to his side. He stared out at the twirling dancers.

"Nothing at all."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

Hope you all enjoyed~! My first crossover fic. It was loads of fun to write, let me tell you.


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